Wednesday, September 28, 2011

Once upon a time in a wasteland not so far away, I found myself traveling westward on Highway 30 toward an irrelevant destination. In the darkest of hours, when ruminations are brighter than headlights and cemeteries are encountered as often as oncoming traffic, one is apt to focus upon anything deemed out of the ordinary, and to confuse such sights with those of an extraordinary nature is understandable yet the distinction must be made. A steering wheel lying in the road, for example, is out of the ordinary, whereas a clown juggling three chainsaws along the roadside at midnight, in contrast, qualifies as extraordinary. I witnessed neither of those things on the evening in question, that much should be obvious (for if I had seen a deranged entertainer juggling harmful objects as I drove down a deserted highway in the middle of the night, rest assured I would have blogged about it years ago) but what I did see was something much trickier to readily appreciate, a sight which, perhaps, forever occupies that nebulous state between standard and sensational - not so much for what it is, but for the thoughts it may elicit and the behaviors potentially implied.

Before divulging those emotions stroked by the aforementioned, albeit undefined occurrence it would be wise of me to offer a preemptive apology since the likelihood of you being disappointed is substantial; which is terribly, terribly important to yours truly, and while on the topic of excusations, I sincerely apologize for using the terms thoughts and emotions interchangeably as I did above. I tend to do that (in more ways than one) so please bear with me.

So anyway, one night while driving, I saw a meteorite crash off in the distance. When I stopped to investigate, I found a rock, cracked in several places, with a gooey, purple substance oozing out from each of the fissures. I then poked the viscous mass with a stick, at which point the ooze came to life, crawling up the stick onto my arm. I screamed and...

(Okay, that never happened.)

What I beheld that evening is merely happenstance of the nocturnal variety, decidedly less than preternatural in both appearance and significance but a thing of the utmost beauty nonetheless. I'd been hurtling down the road with the high beams of my rusty Oldsmobile doing their best to illuminate the blackened Earth when movement at the ever-shifting edge of darkness drew my gaze to the side of the road, toward an object far enough to be free from danger yet near enough to arouse one's fearful curiosity. Amidst the brightened weeds and vacant plains which characterize numerous segments of Highway 30 (which is to say that for all intents and purposes, Highway 30 traverses, more often than not, a grassy void) I observed a coyote, and a particularly scrawny one at that, feasting upon the partially-dismembered corpse of a doe which had, in all probability, been the unfortunate victim of vehicular cervicide. For a moment, the ravenous canine paused to observe the automobile, its eyes flashbulbs returning the unwanted light. Momentarily illuminated, the gore smeared across the coyote's muzzle was almost cerise, glistening like a cherry atop a sundae and before the light had completely passed it by, the coyote returned to its quarry, burying its face in the belly of the broken beast and I said to myself, Now that's what I call love.

That's the tale. As stated earlier, it's a tad underwhelming. Then again, there's a magnificence to its simplicity - not in my storytelling, of course, but in the situation itself and to a much lesser degree, the response. Though imperfect, the declaration succeeds insomuch that you or the hypothetical reader/ listener are savvy to the notion that a coyote zealously devouring a deer carcass fits into my conceptualization of love quite readily. Matters of should notwithstanding, it most certainly could be love.*

That some would disagree with me is probable as well as reasonable. What concerns me, however, are those who upon reading (or hearing) said story would launch into an astoundingly annoying What kind of person would say that? /think that? / consider that love? tirade of epic proportions, most likely accompanied by gratuitous finger pointing and an especially grating tone of voice.** Most perplexing, I suppose, is that some people are so delusional as to believe love, in all its inscrutable glory, is something only they are capable of understanding and subsequently consider themselves worthy of passing judgment on those who would disagree.

Shit, I'd trust a coyote's opinion of love over someone like that and while I'm no gambler, I'd wager the coyote more capable of love, to say nothing about finding it.

* Please don't bore me with high-school lexicology. Thanks in advance.
** Don't get started on the What kind of person? criticisms.

Monday, September 26, 2011

I've never been enamored with vampires. Sucking blood is great for ticks, not me. As for the eroticism involved, I don't pretend to understand much about the mechanics of said -ism but what I do know is that being bitten by some douche with slicked-back hair is not high on my list of titillating experiences. It's just not that sexy. This is, of course, presuming that vampires are of the relatively modern, 'suave' variety exemplified by the likes of Bela Lugosi and Christopher Lee.* If we're talking about the 21st Century Vampire, the kind that sparkles in direct sunlight, plays baseball, demonstrates a variety of super powers lifted from an issue of The Uncanny X-Men, goes snorkeling, spends an inordinate amount of time and effort upon styling his hair to look as if it hasn't been styled, files his tax returns promptly, etc. then we aren't really talking about vampires anyway, so let's drink root beer and watch Eat, Pray, Love instead.

Hot, hot, hot!

Thus far, we've established that I'm just not into vampires (and yes, feel free to crack wise about me having dated one), glittery vampires are a joke, and Eat, Pray, Love is dumber than shit. Check, check, and check.

Tom Holland's Fright Night is one of my favorite movies. (No horseshit, Wang.) I won't bore either of us with a synopsis, Disemboweled Reader, but it should be painfully obvious that a horror film starring Chris Sarandon (better known to some as Prince Humperdinck from The Princess Bride), Roddy McDowall (better known to some as Cornelius from Planet of the Apes) and Stephen Geoffreys (better known to some as that guy from a bunch of movies in Harrison Forbes' porn collection) is bound for greatness.

Saturday, September 24, 2011

The living dead I can deal with, but zombies in the morning? If I can hit the snooze button, flesh-eating corpses, you can, too; and don't give me any of that breakfast is the most important meal of the day jive, either. Now, can you dig it?

Wednesday, September 21, 2011

You're right, I did, but that was before I had the pleasure of staying in a Japanese hotel for a few days; and by stay in a Japanese hotel I mean quite a bit since there's a typhoon blowing across the country. Due to this, I've had ample opportunity to go over the hotel pamphlets in great detail, one of which is the list of movies available for viewing. The usual Hollywood fare is present, as always, but there also happens to be more, shall we say, Japanesish stuff on the menu, and when I say Japanesish stuff I mean pornography! There's nothing wrong with pornography per se, though it's the advertisements which amuse me far more than any film could.

Some of the offerings are pretty straightforward:

We all like orgasms, right? (Even if one doesn't, the topic is entirely predictable.)

Athletes, cheerleaders, it's all the same. Anyone who knows how to handle a tennis racket knows how to handle...

She's so fashionable, and fashion is half the battle.

At this point, tastes become a bit more particular:

Boys will be boys, and some boys like girls on girls.

Something for the adulterer demographic.

Roomies... with benefits!

There's a market for it, I guess, but she's a bit young, don't you think?

From here, things really go downhill:

Enough with the cosplay shit already, guys.

The highest what?

To be honest, I'm not even sure how an internal cum shot at immoral travel is possible (though I kinda-sorta wish I had a body like that, but anyway).

To be candid, I'm curious to see just what this one is about. Is it about sending a bitch to your home, or sending a bitch back home? Inquiring minds want to know.

Monday, September 12, 2011

Before anything else, let's just get this out of the way: Who, I say who is in the mood for a Birthday Week hug? Who's on board?

No one?

Come ON! You mean to tell me I bought this teddy bear costume for nothing? Seriously, what's the deal? It's not like I can get my money back at this point, what with the modifications and all. Do you honestly believe the store would give me a refund now that the costume has razor blades embedded in the paws and shards of broken glass in lieu of teeth? Jerk.

I'm kidding of course,* so let's have a big hug to celebrate the joke.

Still reluctant? Okay, I get it, I really do, but I'd appreciate some empathy. I purchased this teddy bear suit, enhanced it, offered you a hug (with glassy kisses!) and this is your reaction? Well, you go to hell!

Kidding again.** Sorry. I can't help myself. One could even say I can't hold back, and speaking of which:

Am I the only one who thinks this song could apply to the killer and a victim from a 1984 slasher flick? (Take a look at the lyrics and tell me I'm wrong.) Alongside I Can't Hold Back, 1984 saw the release of Friday the 13th: The Final Chapter and as much as I want to say Part II is my favorite of the sequels, the kid in me still adores the fourth installment of a now-tired franchise. Sure, the first sequel had bag-head Jason and everyone's favorite final girl, Amy Steel, but Part IV had Tom Savini on special effects, Crispin Glover attacked with a corkscrew, Corey fucking Feldman (before he became a parody of himself), a guy shot in the groin with a speargun, twins (not the Doublemint twins, unfortunately, but good enough) and a whole lot more - including actress Judie Aronson as Samantha.

Yeah, I had a big crush on Judie Aronson/ Samantha as a kid though the reasons behind such adoration shall remain unexplained, if only because they're as trivial, and perhaps inscrutable, as those of most other childhood fascinations. What needs be said is that, like you, she'd be a wonderful person to hug - with or without the bear suit.***

* For what you think and/or desire is important, though not in the way you'd expect.
** It's amusing to watch you struggle, after all.
*** But I'm still going to wear the bear suit, sucker.

Saturday, September 03, 2011

Last night, I had a dream and like most nocturnal (re)visions, it was at once vivid yet maddeningly obscure. I scantly recall the particulars, though I do remember stepping into a man's elbow (causing it to bend the way Nature hadn't intended) and then, sometime later, decorating that same gentleman with orange spray paint just prior to dismembering him. There was a woman, too, but I can't remember what happened to her. What I do recall is that she was delightful in some ways, while terribly annoying in others.

Anyway, I awoke from this dream in a ravenous state, which is to say I simply had to eat something, though not anything readily available (for that would have been far too easy). Regarding foodstuffs, some would label me the survival type as the most you'll see in my fridge at any given moment is, for example, a loaf of bread, jar of mustard, half-eaten pizza slice,* bottles of alcohol,** and some milk. I suppose it's the part of me that never thinks too far into the future, or maybe I don't like to throw food away and thus only buy as much as (I think I'll) eat. Whatever the case may be, the food I purchase is never the food desired when I wake up in the dead of night.

This, folks, is how a person ends up at McDonald's at three-thirty in the morning on a Saturday, decimating a Big Mac when a Big Mac is, honestly, a shitty burger from a mediocre fast food joint. Then again, the place is open at three-fucking-whatever in the morning and when you're starving, even a Big Mac tastes like what you've been dreaming about. Keep the dream alive, I always say.***

* That's the way I found it!
** Kidding, of course. Booze doesn't last a day in my presence.
*** No, I don't.

Thursday, September 01, 2011

A few years ago, I began a series of horror-themed posts in which six stills from a film would be presented for the readers' viewing pleasure and, in a way, encapsulate the narrative of the movie itself. A year later, the concept resurfaced, however briefly, as tribute to the spectacularly craptacular Birdemic.

Here we are in 2011, after a failed film adaptation of a series of posts based upon horror films, an underwhelming Broadway musical entitled Six Shots till Summation: Tune Out the Fart (collaborating with Taco on the score proved a colossal mistake) and a disastrous video game tie-in developed by the ironically-named American Sammy.

With so much heartache accompanying such a beloved franchise, it stands to reason that the concept needs to be taken in a direction at once faithful to the original yet daringly divergent. Granted, in today's remake/ reboot/ regurgitation heavy market that kind of statement often precedes the release of a pathetic, uninspired retread -in 3D, no less- and perhaps this is no different, but I'd like to think there's a whole lot of soul in today's release. Soul, I say!

What makes today's Six Shots till Summation unique is that instead of posting screen captures from the film itself, I will instead a put series of pictures on display which, collectively, somewhat embodies my opinion of the movie in question, in this case Rubber, directed by Quentin Dupieux.

For those in the know: Yes, Rubber ranks amongst the most infuriatingly atrocious things I've encountered in the past thirty-odd years. I mean, I can accept that Rowan Atkinson isn't Mr. Bean; offer cherry tomatoes to dinner companions; run out of the bar when the jukebox plays Bell Biv Devoe; abstain from traveling to Dubai for the good of whatever passing itself off, however poorly, as humanity currently residing there; allow yuppies to keep being fuckheads with poor taste in music; and pretend that PT Cruisers are really Decepticons infiltrating the homes of the elderly, lobotomized, and neutered alike; but Rubber is too much.